


The Phone Call

by MayhemHeart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, But so does sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Greg Lestrade, POV Mycroft Holmes, Phone Sex, Secret Identity, Sentiment happens, Surprise Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26314111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayhemHeart/pseuds/MayhemHeart
Summary: Prompt for Smutember 9/1/2020 "Dirty Talk."Mycroft regularly calls a sex hotline and talks to the same guy, and likes to pretend its Greg. Even though the guy sounds like Lestrade, there's no way Lestrade would ever have a side job like this, right? (Spoiler - He totally does)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 38
Kudos: 309





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So.. we meet again... Absolutely no beta. All mistakes are mine. I will fix errors later once my beta does their review, but this has been sitting for days, and I want just to get it posted because I am impatient lol. Again, all mistakes are on me.

Mycroft sits in his home office and stares dubiously at the mobile on his desk in front of him, his fingers give a slight twitch, but he refrains from reaching out. As always, he has his silent debate, if he's going to give in to temptation or not. Of course, he will inevitably, but at least these few moments let him pretend he's in control of his desires. The first time he was nervous, but after that, the feeling turned into delicious anticipation. It is not something he needs to engage in, but it is incredibly indulgent of him.

He eyes the innocent-looking wireless earpiece next to his mobile. He never required one before, but it appeared on his desk a few weeks after discovering his new pastime. Mycroft had struggled to look Anthea in the face for a week. His phone was encrypted and secure, but she was his right hand for a reason. He knew she _knew_ why being" hands-free" might be beneficial.

The internal debate over, Mycroft picks up the earpiece, hooks it around his right ear, reaches for his mobile, and holds his breath as he dials the memorized number. He listens to the beeps as he keys in the options for the prompts inquired by the prerecorded voice. His whole body thrums in expectancy as he waits on the line, gripping the mobile tightly in his hand.

"Hi, my name is Gary," a male voice huskily purrs on the other line, "who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?" 

Mycroft bites his bottom lip, putting the mobile back on the desk, and leans back in his chair, his hands on the armrests. _Good lord_ , he thinks, the man's voice never fails to make him melt. It's like liquid smoke, and the sound sends tremors straight to his groin. It also reminds him of a particular silvered hair individual of a similar name. It dangerously blurs the line of reality, but it's not something Mycroft is willing to stop. 

"Good evening, Gary," he replies.

There is a surprised inhale on the other line and then a breathy response, "Hello Gorgeous."

Mycroft feels his face go hot, and his stomach gives a little flip at the nickname. It's flattering that Gary still recognizes his voice and always seems happy to hear him. He was too apprehensive the first time to provide a name, so Gary took to calling him different endearments. Mycroft doesn't mind them, so he never felt the need to change the status quo. Gary just always knows it's him. 

"I was hoping you would call tonight," the voice continues. "I missed you these past two weeks," Mycroft can practically hear the pout. 

"My apologies," Mycroft licks his dry lips, wetting them. "Unforeseen circumstances had me unable to participate in our usual conference."

"Fuck, it's okay," Gary groans (no, Greg, Mycroft's mind corrects, this is part of the fantasy after all). "God, your voice. The way you talk. I missed it so much. Jesus, my cock is already getting hard for you."

Mycroft shifts in his seat, his cock starting to respond in kind. It was ridiculous how pavlovian it all was. His fingers flex on the armrests, but he makes no effort to move yet, "I admit your voice does the same for me."

"Yeah?" Greg's voice is gravely and velvet-edged simultaneously," Have you had a long day, sweetheart? Want do you need tonight?"

Mycroft inhales and exhales slowly, his mind racing through different scenarios, but all he can think about is Lestrade's attractive face the last time he saw him. Unfortunately, it had been when he had to take Lestrade's current case from him, national security concerns, of course. He could tell the other man had wanted to argue from the stubborn set of his chin and mouth thinned with displeasure. He had noted the dark tired eyes and the shadow of two days worth of stubble outlining his strong jawline. Silver hair disheveled in a stark contrast to the man’s tanned skin. 

All of it had made Mycroft _want_ , and he did his best to keep his face cold and stoic. But then Lestrade's eyes lazily roamed his figure, and there was a flash of white as his lips set in a mischievous grin. The look he had given Mycroft sent goosebumps down his arms; it was the look of "I know something you don't know." As if there was a secret, Mycroft wasn't privy to. Before Mycroft could deduce anything more, Lestrade had turned around and was already ordering his team to pack up. It had left Mycroft feeling unsteady. 

"Gorgeous?" Gary's voice pulls Mycroft back to the present, "What do you need?" 

"You," Mycroft says lamely and winces.

Greg gives a warm chuckle. "You already have me, love. What can I do to help release that stress I hear in your voice, hmm? Do you need to fuck me? Pin me down and have your way with me. Or maybe I could fuck you, nice and slow? Take my time filling you up, teasing you, make you beg for me to thrust into you."

"Good lord," Mycroft moans, "your mouth."

"My mouth?" Mycroft hears the smirk in Greg's voice. "Would you like to fuck my mouth? Shove your cock down my throat. Make your dick nice and wet?"

"Yes." Mycroft sighs, finally pressing his right palm against his crotch; he's already half hard. 

"Are you wearing one of your suits tonight?"

"Yes," Mycroft says, blinks, then adds, "no jacket, sleeves rolls up to my forearms."

"Waistcoat and sleeve garters still on?"

Mycroft lets out an affirmative hum that turns into a soft whimper as he presses down again, giving himself some friction. His nipples tighten, and his shirt feels rough against his sensitive skin.

"Fuck me up," Greg says, "that's so hot. I love knowing you're all dressed up. So put together. I want to take you apart. I want to ruin you."

Mycroft gasps, "please."

"Go ahead and push your trouser and pants down but not all the way." Greg's voice is smooth but insistent. "Leave the rest of your clothes on; I want to imagine you at your desk dressed up but with your cock out. I can't wait to get my mouth on you." Greg pauses as Mycroft breath catches, and Mycroft quickly moves to obey.

"Get some lube and make your self wet for me." Greg continues.

Mycroft reaches for the small bottle of lube in his desk drawer. It's water-based and feels silky-smooth against his skin. It was another addition he found the same day as the earpiece. Bless Anthea. 

Mycroft lets out a filthy moan as his lubed hand wraps around his heated cock, he can feel his pulse throb, and he lightly spreads the wetness from root to tip and back down. 

"Good boy." Greg purrs, "I love hearing the noises you make. I can't wait to get my mouth on you. I want to run my tongue all over your dick, my mouth stretching as I take you. Would you like that, you could put your hand on my throat and feel as I swallow you all the way down."

Mycroft strokes himself up and down slowly, as he imagines Lestrade in front of him on his knees, gripping the salt and pepper hair as he uses the other man's mouth. Greg is right; he would love to slide his other hand down and feel Lestrades's throat. He would leave his thumb against the corner of the older man's lips, feeling the stretch of his mouth and the gathering saliva. Mycroft would hold Lestrade's head still as he took his pleasure, thrusting up into the wet heat. 

Mycroft grunts and reaches with his other hand to pull lightly on his balls, they barely started, and he already feels dangerously close. It's been too long. A large bead of precum wells up at the tip of his dick, and swipes his thumb over it. 

In a lower throatier tone, Greg asks, "Do you like that, love?" and then, "Fuck, I need to touch myself, just listening to those noises you make."

"Fuck, please, touch yourself while you suck my cock" Mycroft replies, and his mind diligently provides the updated imagery of Lestrade, on his knees, tugging on his cock as he moans around Mycroft. 

Mycroft hears the rustle of movement on the other line, and Greg gives a deep laugh that's all kinds of dirty and Mycroft's toes curl inside his shoes, "Christ, I don't even need lube right now." Greg breathes. Mycroft can imagine the wicked grin with the next words, "you should see the wet spot on my pants, Posh. Fuck me up. I wish-" his voice cuts off as he whimpers and lets out a shaky exhale. "God, I want you to pull my hair and feed your cock to me. I want my eyes to water as you use me, I want to gag on your dick."

Mycroft lets himself get lost in the sound of the other man's voice. His body tingles as Greg's velvet murmur whispers dirty things to him, edging him closer and close to climax. Eventually, he's too warm; there's sweat collecting under the collar of his shirt that is clinging to his damp body. His arse and exposed thighs are sticking to the leather of his chair. His trousers and pants pulled taut at his knees, where his legs are trapped, unable to spread further than what fabric allows. His skin feels tight, and he feels like he's going to burst into flames at any moment. It's suffocating. It's overwhelming. It's glorious.

"That's it," Greg's voice is thick and unsteady, "Come for me, gorgeous. Come in my mouth." 

"Oh God, Gre-" Mycroft bites his lip, barely avoiding the slip-up, but Greg's command is enough for the tension to snap, and Mycroft finally tips over the edge. His vision whites out, and he feels a rush of pleasure that seems to burst forth from his center. His toes feel as if he dipped them into ice water while his ears blaze with heat. His cock throbs as he releases in thick spurts over his hand and trousers. He distantly hears Greg keen as he also finds his relief, his breath coming in harsh over the earpiece. 

There's a few moments of silence, and Mycroft relaxes, loosely holding his softening cock; his head feels light and like he's underwater, and he gives a few slow blinks. The world feels muted, and the constant hum of his thoughts has temporarily ceased. 

Greg's horse whisper breaks the silence, "you still with me, Gorgeous?"

Mycroft gives a soft hum and reaches for some tissues to clean up, "that is debatable at this moment."

Greg laughs in agreement, and Mycroft can hear movement on the other line. "Fuck, I really missed you, you have no idea. I haven't come like that in a while."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, "I would assume you have many opportunities to," he trails off.

Greg snorts, "Well, yeah, but no one gets me all hot and bothered like you, Posh."

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but says coyly, "I can attribute the same responses to you as well, Gary."

They exchange a few small pleasantries with a promise to call again next week, and Mycroft hangs up the phone. His limbs feel heavy, and he suddenly wants nothing but to collapse into his waiting bed. He has a long busy day ahead of him tomorrow, and he should try to get some sleep. If he's lucky, his dreams might work in favor tonight and feature his favorite inspector. 

Halfway across London, Greg Lestrade tosses his mobile down and uses his shirt to clean himself up. His heart is still pounding from his orgasm, and the revelation that he is almost 100% sure his posh caller is Mycroft. At first, it was just a fantasy, a guilty pleasure to think about, tease himself with since the voice evoked Mycroft's image from the start. He never believed that the younger man would ever call a sex hotline; hell, no one knew Greg even did it on the side. After his divorce, it seemed like a fun thing to try, make some extra money. 

However, all the pieces have slowly started coming together; the voice, the suits, the late nights, and the irregular business trips. Earlier that day, Sherlock lamented that Mycroft was back in town after being away on a trip and how peaceful the last two weeks had been without him around. Then the same day, there's a call from Mr. Gorgeous himself. 

Greg groans, leaning back against his couch, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, "fuck me up."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People wanted a part 2 so... *tentatively posts part 2* This was supposed to be a short extra and somehow plot happened. I have no idea what I am doing. There will be more parts now. All mistakes mine. Still no beta. I will edit later.

The next time Greg sees Mycroft, he is not prepared. It's a few days after the phone call, and he's standing outside the barricade tape of a crime scene watching Sherlock rush around, tailed by Watson, who is doing his best to make sure Sherlock doesn't contaminate anything.

"Five minutes Sherlock," Greg says and orders the rest of his team to give the consulting detective space, "and for God's sake, don't touch anything. If you need something moved, tell Anderson."

He's standing alone when he sees the car pull up a few houses down, the sunset reflecting off the sleek black exterior. Greg's heart starts to race with half anticipation and half dread. Seeing the familiar car shouldn't have abruptly made the ground tilt beneath his feet. He knew that once Holmes appeared, the other one had the potential to follow. Yeah, except you fantasize about one of them during phone sex with strangers, his traitorous mind kindly points out. 

Mycroft gets out of the backseat of the car, and Greg feels his mouth go dry. As usual, the man is in an impeccable tailored three-piece suit, dark navy with light pinstripes, black umbrella in hand. As the taller man gets closer with long, purposeful strides, Greg takes in the honey-colored tie and matching pocket square, the chain of his pocket watch and cuff links occasionally flash, catching the fading daylight. 

Greg is painfully aware of his disheveled appearance in his crumpled shirt and creased trousers. He didn't have time to shave this morning, so he's sporting a thick shadow on his jawline. Greg knows that he looks every bit like the tired old detective, a stark contrast to the elegant man coming towards him. He tries to casually run a hand through his hair, attempting to tame what he mussed up earlier. 

Greg's eyes roam over Mycroft's handsome face when he stops in front of him. Mycroft's fair features are sharp and delicate at the same time, from his strong chin to the soft cheekbones. His appearance is one of self-assurance, demanding immediate compliance. Greg feels the need to fall to his knees; it makes him _want_. 

Don't call him gorgeous; Greg repeats the mantra in his head as he shoves his nervous hands into his overcoat and gives his best welcoming smile, "Good Evening, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft's smoky blue eyes flick over Greg's shoulders to briefly look at Sherlock, and then his attention centers on Greg. He gives a slight nod in response, "Good Evening, Detective Inspector." 

"Here to take this case too?" Greg tries to tease, "it would honestly be welcomed, not looking forward to another late night."

"No," Mycroft's mouth almost twitches into a smile, "I am here to speak to Sherlock. Predictably he's evading my calls. I know how unsolved homicides pique his interests, so here I am. As for the late-night..."

Mycroft steps closer to the tape and turns his sharp gaze over the crime scene, and Greg turns around to watch as well. They are in an upscale residential neighborhood, not the typical place one would expect a murder. Sherlock is currently standing next to the victim's open front door, the body just inside the foyer. Asphyxiated, they think, the body has been there for days before the welfare check happened. There are no signs of forced entry; the door locked from the inside. 

Greg tries to relax as the taller man shifts slightly next to him, bringing them side by side; he can almost feel the heat radiating from Mycroft's body. They both look at the overgrown front garden of the house, it's a mess really, but nothing seems trampled or touched, just neglected. 

"The killer entered through that window there," Mycroft inclines his head briefly and points with his umbrella towards one of the windows, "the one closer to the entrance. You may notice new brown paint on the ledge, covering the window's scratches where it was pried open. Your assailant had plenty of time to cover up evidence, at least a fortnight, but they didn't quite get the paint color right when touching up. Too much purple in the mix, not enough yellow," he murmurs the last part, an afterthought.

Greg looks from the window to Mycroft's face to find pale eyes watching him with a thoughtful expression, but it's gone in a blink. Greg files that look away to analyze later and focus on what was said. His brows draw together in confusion, "Two weeks?" he asks. 

"Urtica dioica, or stinging nettles, grow side shoots when broken, usually by some animal but in this case boots. The new side shoots' growth on the nettles under the window indicates someone stepped on them when making entry, most likely the neighbor. Considering the growth rate, I would hypothesize a fortnight. Enough time to mature and blend in with the rest of the lawn."

Greg stares in awe for a moment and realizes his mouth is hanging open. He wonders, is this how John feels? "Neighbor?" he prompts. 

"Ah," Mycroft leans nonchalantly on his umbrella, crossing one ankle over the other as he pivots his attention to the dwelling across the street. His arm brushes against Greg's and Greg almost forgets to breathe. 

"The neighbor has glanced through his curtains at least seventeen times since I've been here; he's agitated rather than merely inquisitive. His garden is meticulous; the angled cut of the grass indicates he's not using a mower but rather doing it by hand with shears; it's obsessive. Other signs point to compulsive behavior, superiority complex, and anger issues. The victim's lawn is slovenly; its appearance indicates it's been more than a few months since anyone attempted to curb the overgrowth. There are lawn service adverts near the door, put there by the neighbor but disregarded.

One could say it was an escalated next-door-neighbor dispute. Sherlock should come to you with those same conclusions within the hour, so not a late night as you fear. I would also check any footwear for the nettle pollen and perhaps the carpet in the neighbor's foyer." 

Greg tries to choke back the laughter that floats up from his throat, "Jesus! Where have you been all my life?" Greg doesn't even stop to consider the implications of what he said. Later he will replay it over, mortified, and add it to his dumb things said to beautiful men. "You mean to tell me I have been dealing with that," he says in disbelief and gestures a hand towards the younger Holmes, "when I could have had you? Bloody hell. You owe me my brown hair back, mate. Your brother has taken years off my life."

Greg thinks he sees a blush on Mycroft's cheeks, but it's hard to tell in the fading light if the twin spots of red aren't just from the sky's pinkish hue. 

Mycroft responds, amusement in his voice, "I'm afraid my talents are better suited elsewhere, Detective." 

Oh, I bet they are darlin', Greg thinks. 

"Besides," Mycroft continues, a flash of humor crosses his face, "it's better to keep Sherlock busy rather than bored. I also know that your hair was beginning to silver before my brother started to invade your crime scenes." 

Greg huffs out a laugh and turns his body towards the taller man, fuck me up, he thinks. He knew Mycroft was smart, but he never thought about what that implied. _Wait_ , Greg thinks and tries not to panic, does this mean he can deduce the same way Sherlock does? Oh fuck, has he been doing that all along? Does he know how I feel about him? Bloody hell, Greg coughs and looks down, trying to hide the glow on his face. Change the subject, change the subject, he frantically thinks. 

"So..." Greg clears his throat, "Sherlock said you were out the country, did you have a nice trip? Wait-" he pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes in a brief wince, "sorry. You probably can't tell me. I'm sure it wasn't a leisure trip, forget I asked." 

"It wasn't leisure, but it wasn't as strenuous as I had projected. Tedious, perhaps," Mycroft's voice softens "and longer than expected." 

Greg hums, "Well, I'm sure you are glad to be back; traveling is nice, but it's nothing like being home. Hope you had a decent homecoming," he falters as he has a flashback of probably-maybe-Mycroft moaning in his ear that night. Good God. 

Mycroft looks down at his umbrella and slowly rotates it on its point and gives a small cough, "I had an enjoyable evening, yes." The movement draws Greg's eyes to Mycroft's strong and slim fingers before pulling them back up to the taller man's face. 

"Me too," Greg replies and winces again. Mycroft's mouth tips into a warm smile, and his left eyebrow raises a fraction. Greg thinks he sees a gleam of interest in those dove-blue eyes, and it sends his pulse racing. "I mean, right. That's good. Great. Fantastic." He prays that the evening shadows will help hide the color on his face. 

Thankfully Sherlock and John walk briskly towards them, stopping Greg's embarrassing word vomit. He nods as the two men approach. 

"Gary," Sherlock says, "it was the neighbor- " he stops short and looks at Mycroft, brows furrowed, "are you having a stroke?" 

At the same time, John and Greg say automatically, "It's Greg." 

By the time Greg glances at Mycroft, his face is schooled into a bored expression, his eyes flat and hard. Greg immediately wants to reach out and find the soft smile he received earlier, but he knows it's already buried under the many layers of Mycroft Holmes. Even when he's wearing his ice armor, he's still beautiful, Greg thinks, the frostbite would be worth it. 

Greg walks away while the brothers trade sharp taunts at each other. He heads over to Donovan to tell her about the suspicious neighbor; they still have a job to finish. At least he didn't slip and call Mycroft any endearments; death by humiliation is not how he wants to go. 

_______________________________ 

It is the phone call later that night when he fucks up. Sherlock and Mycroft were right; the neighbor, when pressed, confessed everything. Evidence was bagged by SOCO and sent over to the labs. In addition to the paperwork Greg had to complete, he also realizes he had put off both the annual performance reviews and case reviews, the deadline for both being tomorrow evening. Three coffees and a dry slice of someone's birthday cake later; he was starting to crash. Mostly everyone had left for the night, and the clock showed it was nearing eleven. 

When his mobile rings, he briefly glances at the Unknown on his caller ID before answering. "Lestrade," he says, irritated. He had been getting spam calls lately, but he felt the need to answer every one just in case it was important. 

There is a pregnant pause on the other line before he hears a calm, polished voice, "I'm sorry to bother you, Detective Inspector. I just now realize it is extremely late. I can call again later." 

"Mr. Holmes," Greg says sheepishly and clears his throat, "Sorry, I'm still at the office. Late work nights make the cranky old man in me come out. What can I do for you?" 

There's another pause, and Mycroft continues, "It has come to my attention that we are missing some of the paperwork from the Dover case from last month. I'm sure you understand the importance of obtaining all evidence." 

Greg looks helplessly at the folders stacked precariously on his desk and file boxes spread around his office floor. "Uh, right. Sure, I can see if I can find them." He gives a short laugh, "was just in the middle of some reorganization." 

Mycroft hums in understanding, "Anthea advised me it's just the initial report, the notes from the 999 call," he adds helpfully. 

"Oh, hold on-" Greg reaches over to grab one of the blue folders on his desk. He knows everyone thinks his filing system is a disaster (it is), but there is some order in the chaos. A few seconds later, he has the missing papers in his hand, "have them right here." 

"Excellent," Mycroft sighs, and Greg can hear the weariness in his voice. Something intense sparks in his chest and his heart thumps so hard it hurts. 

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," Mycroft says, "I'll have Anthea pick it up in the morning." 

"Sure thing, Gorgeous." Greg replies, it takes him a moment to register the sharp inhale on the other line and the reason for it. His stomach drops, and his face grows hot with humiliation. Oh, holy fucking God. 

Greg swallows hard and stammers, "Fuck, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to call you that. Not that you aren't gorge-, I mean, you are- No. I mean objectively, you are a beautiful man, bloody hell, I mean handsome, n-not that I'm trying to come onto you," he groans, horrified that his mouth keeps moving and sounds keep coming out. Kill him now. There is silence on the other line. 

"Look," He says, his voice shakier than he would have liked, "I'm so sorry. I'm running on fumes, and I'm not sure I'm even awake right now. Just ignore me. Right." He pauses for a moment, "I'll have this ready tomorrow for you. Sorry again. Goodnight." 

Greg hangs up and drops his mobile. His forehead hits his desk, "what the fuck Lestrade?" he laments. "What the bloody hell was that?" Greg grabs his hair, pushing it back and pulling anxiously. He just told Mycroft he was attractive and hung upon him. He, Greg Lestrade, _hung up_ on the bloody British government after calling him _gorgeous_. Oh, he was never going to get over this. He was going to have to quit his job and find some cave to move into. Goodbye life he once knew. 

Greg abruptly pushes back from his desk and stands up, his office chair hitting the wall behind him. It was time to go home and have a drink or several. Maybe the whole damn bottle, Greg thinks as he locks his office door and heads towards the exit. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh, this was supposed to be just smut, and then _sentiment_ got added? Oops. This is also the most descriptive I've ever gotten for a story, so while I am hella nervous about posting this, I hope you all enjoy it <3
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

Four days later, Greg finds himself sitting on his couch, staring at his mobile, his _other_ mobile. It's his usual night to get a call from Mr. Gorgeous, and Greg is 100% convinced it's Mycroft. Of course, Mycroft never called back the other night or reached out to him, but Greg just _knows_. He might not have the "Holmes" brain, but he didn't get to his position as DI for being unable to connect the dots. Big, prominent, bright neon dots. Greg can't help but bounce his knee as he chews on his thumbnail in apprehension. It's nerve-wracking.

If Mycroft calls, that means he might have a shot, but if he doesn't, then... Greg doesn't want to think about the implication of him blowing his chance. Not that he thought he _had_ a chance to begin with, but now that the cards are on the table... _fuck_. Greg stands up and starts to pace in his small flat. He feels like he's a teen again waiting to find out if his crush likes him back. Check yes or no. Only this time, he's passing the note to the most powerful man in the British Government. Bloody hell, this isn't going to end well. Mycroft is going to check no.

When his second mobile finally goes off, Greg trips over his feet to grab it. He clutches it so hard in his hand for a moment he fears he's going to crack the plastic. Greg hesitates to answer. He can do this, he _has_ to do this. He can feel his whole body shaking, and an overwhelming sense of uncertainty creeps down his neck.

Taking a deep inhale, he answers and gushes out in a rushed breath, far from the slow, sultry tone he usually uses. "Hi, my name is Gary, who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

There's a short heavy silence on the other line before- "Gregory."

Greg feels like he has just swallowed ice, and it settles painful and heavy in his stomach, "M-Mycroft," he replies hesitantly.

A short nervous chuckle comes through, "I must admit while I was quite confident, I feared I might have miscalculated for once."

Greg hears the sound of a car door closing and footsteps on asphalt; he feels his heart drop. Of course, this wasn't going to be their usual phone call, he didn't expect it after his blunder, but Mycroft out in public was a pretty good indicator this would be an "it was nice while it lasted, but no thanks" call and less than an intimate "let's move forward with us" call.

Greg decides at that moment to just dive in and get the rejection over with, "Mycroft," he begins. 

"I am so, so sorry. I didn't know. I had hoped- I mean, I had thought about it," Greg sighs, he's already six feet under, he might as well finish the job. "I always wished it was _you_ , but I wasn't sure. I never imagined... I started doing this for fun. I was going to stop, but then you started to call regularly, and I just..." Greg pauses and runs his hand down his face and pinches his lower lip with his thumb and pointer finger, tugging before letting it go. "To be honest, I put a screening filter that only accepts calls from you... _only you_ , Mycroft. Fuck, I..."

Greg lets out a small hysterical laugh and collapses into the worn cushions of his couch. He leans his head back and runs his free hand through his hair, staring at his ceiling, "I don't know how to explain or continue with this. I want you, have wanted you, and the other night I know I fucked up and made you uncomfortable - so for that, I apologize. I-"

"Gregory," Mycroft's smooth voice interrupts, "If you are going to apologize, then I must as well. I do not wish for you to believe that you have somehow...deceived me. After much reflection, I realized you would come to this conclusion, so I want to rectify this misunderstanding." Greg hears a deep inhale followed by a shaky exhale, "Please answer your door."

Greg shoots a wary glance at his door, "Is it Anthea with some NDA?"

The surprised laugh Mycroft lets out is marvelous and intoxicating. Greg's stomach swoops with delight; even if this is the end, at least he got this pleasure. "No, Gregory, although I'm sure she's preparing similar paperwork but not for the reason you think. Please, answer your door."

Greg glances down at his threadbare white sleepshirt and loose navy flannel bottoms. The t-shirt is snug on him, and he knows it clings obscenely to his body, but the cotton is soft and comfortable. For a moment, he thinks about getting his dressing gown, but since it's probably one of Mycroft's assistants telling him to fuck off, he doesn't feel inclined to. Reluctantly he stands and goes to his front door. Opening it, he chuckles nervously, "I'm not going to get kidnapped or anything right-"

Greg momentarily stops breathing as he takes in the sight of Mycroft standing on his doorstep in a beautiful sharkskin suit, mobile held to his ear. Greg thinks his tie is navy, or it could be a dark purple; to be honest, Greg's focus is on Mycroft's face, trying to gauge the other man's purpose - is he here to personally end things or to… _oh_.

He takes in Mycroft's classically handsome features; smooth jawline, regal nose, and thin lips that are starting to curve into a slow, secret smile. In the shadows of the hallway, Mycroft's eyes are the deep ash of a smoldering fire, and Greg can feel their heat flicker along his exposed skin. Greg has had appreciative looks thrown his way, hell he was married once, but no one has ever looked at Greg like this before. He feels intimately displayed and devoured all at once. His heart flutters, and warmth starts to coil low in his abdomen.

Mycroft looks powerful in his perfectly polished veneer, eyes kindling with desire, and Greg _wants_ so bad it hurts. Greg knows Mycroft is studying him right now, taking in his appearance and cataloging his level of hunger and arousal. There is no way to misinterpret the heavy tension that is slowly intensifying between them. Mycroft pulls his mobile away with his elegant, long fingers and disconnects the call, not once taking his eyes off Greg, sliding it into his jacket's pocket. 

"Gregory," Mycroft purrs low and smooth, and Greg feels his body tingle, "I believe we have mutual interests and aspirations."

Before he can stop himself, Greg is blindly tossing his mobile on the small table next to the door and reaching out for Mycroft, pulling him by the lapels of his expensive suit and into the flat. Mycroft closes the door behind them with the heel of his foot, and Greg is pushing up on his bare toes to press his lips against Mycroft's before the door is even fully closed. He leans his body into the taller man, and they both moan into the kiss. It's desperate and needy, the slide of lips and tongues, hints of teeth. 

Greg knows they should stop and talk, but that can come later; in his mind, they have _only_ talked. It's time for action. 

Greg brings his hands to cup Mycroft's jaw softly, thumbs running reverently along his cheekbones, and he slows the kiss down, deepening it. 

***

Mycroft's thoughts flicker in and out like lousy reception over a radio due to the current sensory overload. There's so much new data to taste, smell, and feel. His mind wants to analyze it all at once, but his senses threaten to drown him. His mind switches over to collecting data instead; later, he can examine the experience in detail. He indexes mentally how the solid, cold surface against his back feels compared to Greg's warm, firm body on his front. He documents how it feels to melt their bodies together from hips to shoulders, feeling Greg's heart thudding against his own where their chests meet. Mycroft catalogs the contradiction of the soft hardness of Greg's lips against his and how the stroke of his tongue sends electricity down his spine. Greg's large rough hands frame his face gently, and Mycroft lets him control the kiss, sinking into the demand of Greg's wanting mouth. 

Greg pulls back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against Mycroft's, "Fuck - if you need me to stop-" Greg's hips twitch, and Mycroft feels his growing arousal press against him.

Mycroft looks down into Greg's hooded eyes; large dark pupils swallow up the rich chocolate brown. He leans his body into Greg's, letting the other man feel his interest, and watches Greg's eyes flutter shut, dark lashes casting shadows on bronzed cheeks. A small whine escapes Greg's throat as Mycroft nips his upper lip.

"Do continue, Gregory," he sighs, soothing the sting of his teeth with a delicate lick, "In fact, I would very much like you to fuck me."

Greg shudders as he inhales, and his mouth is back on Mycroft's, leaving him breathless. Mycroft pulls Greg's hip with one hand, and his other hand slides up the back of Greg's neck to the short salt and pepper hairs at his nape, before grasping the longer strands higher up. Mycroft moans as Greg tugs on his bottom lip, his teeth scraping deliciously against his sensitive flesh. _Good Lord._

Greg pulls him further into the flat, still holding Mycroft's face and devouring his mouth. Mycroft is forced to follow, awkwardly hunched forward, but he doesn't want to lose the heat of Greg's hands. "You, Gorgeous, are wearing too many layers." Greg breathes and punctuates each word with a lick or kiss along Mycroft's jawline.

Mycroft tries to ignore the involuntary flush on his face from the nickname. He pulls back enough to take his thumb and runs it along Greg's satisfyingly red and bitten lower lip, spreading saliva along his swollen flesh. A goldfish could deduce the look on Greg's expressive face, but Mycroft's brian can't stop from analyzing further. Discovering all the desires and hopes mapped out on the most attractive man he has ever known. Mycroft's heart thunders in his chest, knowing that all of Greg's passion is directed towards him. This is not a position he usually finds himself in, and the uncharted territory makes him feel exposed.

He attempts what he hopes is a sly smile to hide his nerves. "I seem to remember you expressing your desire to debauch me in my many layers." His breath catches at the wicked grin Greg displays, right before he licks up the side of Mycroft's thumb, his tongue curling under the digit before he sucks it into his mouth.

***

They stumble their way to Greg's small bedroom, and somehow Mycroft loses his jacket and shoes. Greg gives himself a mental high-five that he recently tidied up and turns on a small lamp, enough to provide the room with a soft glow. Greg hooks his fingers into Mycroft's gold sleeve garters, pulling him towards his bed. "One day," he growls," I'm going to leave you in your armor as I _ruin_ you, but today I need it all off." 

Mycroft's body gives a full shudder against his, and Greg sucks on his bottom aLip. He hears the breathy, "oh God," stutter its way out of Mycroft's mouth. 

The back of Greg's knees hits the mattress, and he stops. His fingers slide up the silky back of Mycroft's waistcoat, mapping the landscape. He's never felt this sense of urgency before, and at the same time, he wants to stop time and savor everything. The need to consume is so profoundly potent. He wants to finally see Mycroft without his layers, to taste and feel his skin. He has survived this long on flashes of pale wrists and the alluring sight of creamy smooth skin exposed by a few buttons and a loosened tie. One time he got a peek of lithe forearms dusted with light auburn hair and was half hard the entire day because of it.

It's surreal that he has Mycroft here and now, letting Greg pet him with his clumsy fingers. If he's dreaming, he doesn't want to wake up. His hands trail to Mycroft's sides and then to the front of his waistcoat.

He looks up at Mycroft and flashes his teeth in what he knows is a hungry smile, "Let me unwrap you, Darlin'."

He hopes Mycroft doesn't notice the nervous trembling in his fingers as he undoes the buttons and removes the grey waistcoat. He groans at the sight of the onyx loop bracers. Greg removes Mycroft's gold cuff links and sets them on his bedside table. Next are the sleeve garters, and he shamelessly gropes Mycroft's forearms as he slips them off. Greg skims his hands teasingly to Mycroft's shoulders and slides the bracers off, so they fall to his sides.

They are kissing again, and this time it's Mycroft's turn to lick down Greg's exposed neck, giving open mouth kisses with hints of teeth along his heated skin. He feels Mycroft's long fingers sliding down the thin fabric over his chest, and his thumbs run roughly over Greg's nipples. Abruptly, Mycroft stills, his breathing harsh and uneven against the dip between Greg's neck and shoulder. Greg whines and presses his body up into Mycroft's mouth, willing him to continue. Mycroft rubs his left thumb back over Greg's nipple slowly, an exploratory questioning move, and Greg smirks.

"Went through a phase during Uni," he rasps out thickly and moans as Mycroft's thumb presses in harder, pushing down onto the small metal barbell piercing.

There's an answering moan of appreciation, and he feels the sharp, sweet sting of Mycroft's teeth, his mouth worrying a bruise on his skin. 

"Oh fuck me," Greg breathes, and this time his knees do give out, and he falls back against the bed. He immediately regrets the loss of contact, but the view he gets in return is worth it. Greg leans back on his elbows as he looks up at Mycroft and licks his bruised lips.

Mycroft is staring down at him with wild unguarded heat; he feels splayed out under those winter grey eyes. Greg's cock thickens, and he feels precome dribble out the tip and wet the front of his PJ bottoms. Mycroft's eyes flicker down to his crotch, the fabric doing nothing to hide Greg's arousal. 

"If you like..." Mycroft says cooly, one corner of his mouth curling, and Greg can't help that his cock twitches some more. He knows it's a Pavlovian response to Mycroft's voice at this point. "But, I still request that you fuck me."

Greg swallows hard as Mycroft's deft fingers undo his tie and the buttons of his shirtsleeves, leaving him only in his white vest and trousers, bracers hanging at his sides. His mouth goes dry at the dark ginger hair peeking out from the collar of the vest and the dusting of it down his lean but strong arms. Even now, with the posh outer shell discarded, Mycroft still looks powerful, seductive, and _dangerous_. Greg suddenly gets the image of a punk Mycroft with smudged dark eyeliner and wild messed up curls, a cigarette hanging out his mouth... or maybe a mafia boss and _fuck me up_ , ain't that a picture? 

Mycroft's hungry gaze concentrates on Greg's chest with purpose. Leaning his tall body forward and over Greg's, he licks Greg's pierced nipple through his thin t-shirt. Greg gasps at the hot wet heat soaking through the fabric and arches into it. Mycroft does the same thing to his right nipple while pulling on the barbell with his fingers. One of Mycroft's legs slides between his, and Greg thrusts up, rubbing his clothed erection against the solid thigh.

"My...Myc," Greg stutters as Mycroft moves back to give attention to his pierced nipple. "Didn't didn't know you would like that so much."

Mycroft breathes hotly against his chest, "I appreciate everything about you, Gregory."

Greg moans and arches his back, pressing up into Mycroft's mouth, "You can appreciate it more if I'm naked."

A sharp bite and tug has Greg keening, "Is that so?" Mycroft asks.

"F-fuuuuck." 

There's a blur of movement as they both remove the rest of their clothing hastily, and Mycroft echoes Greg's huff of laughter as they topple and shift together until they are both on the bed. Greg's body settles on top of Mycroft, skin rubbing against his skin. Greg's calloused hands run over Mycroft's shoulders in wide circles mapping freckles; Mycroft answers back with his fingers digging into Greg's biceps and trailing down to his muscular forearms and back up again.

"I never thought," Greg says and leaves Mycroft's mouth burning with fire, as his lips seared a path down Mycroft's neck, "that I could," a kiss to a shoulder, "have this," a lick along his chest, "with you," a light bite to his nipple. 

Mycroft's hands tangle in Greg's thick hair, and he gasps, "Gregory-"

 _"Jesus,"_ Greg moans into Mycroft's navel, scalp tingling, "I love how you say my name." He nuzzles the trimmed auburn hair right above Mycroft's straining cock, the head brushing under Greg's chin and smearing precome. He breathes in the clean spicy musk, "you have no idea how much I've wanted this..."

Mycroft swallows hard and breathes out, "I- I have some idea."

Greg rubs his lips and stubbled chin along Mycroft's sensitive skin, marking it. "Do you?" 

Mycroft's answer is lost in a groan as Greg licks the tip of his cock, his warm hand wrapping around the base. Greg teases with a few more licks before he runs his tongue lightly down the underside of Mycroft's cock to his balls and back up with more pressure, ending with a light suckle against his frenulum. The noise Mycroft makes spurs Greg's confidence, and he swirls his tongue on Mycroft's cockhead, dipping the tip of his tongue against the salty slit before swallowing him down. It has been a while since he's been with another bloke, let alone do this. Greg relaxes his throat and takes as much as he can, covering up the rest of Mycroft's length with his hand. 

Mycroft's hips spasm, forcing Greg to take him deeper, and his hands tighten in Greg's hair. Mycroft chokes out an apology, but Greg moans and squeezes the other man's hip encouragingly. Mycroft takes the initiative and thrusts shallowly into Greg's warm mouth. Greg continues to let Mycroft work his mouth, losing himself in the sensation of feeling used and full, his jaw blissfully aching until Mycroft is left panting, and his movements faltering. 

"G-Gregory... we-we need to stop or-" Mycroft stutters out, his thighs trembling with restraint. 

Greg pulls off Mycroft's dick slowly and looks up. There is a sheen of sweat along Mycroft's alabaster body as his chest glistens in the faint light, rising and falling with unsteady breaths. Mycroft's hair is in disarray from his regulated, controlled style and starting to curl from perspiration. A flush spreads down from Mycroft's face, where his pupils are blown wide, to his shoulders, and halfway down his chest. The blush makes the constellation of freckles stand out along his skin, and Greg makes a promise to himself to forever explore the universe that is Mycroft Holmes. 

Greg kisses his way back up Mycroft's body, tasting the salt on his skin, his lips tease a pink nipple before grazing his teeth along his collarbones, "Do you want me to fill you up Gorgeous? Take you apart? Fuck you?"

"Fuck," Mycroft moans, _"Please."_

Greg's mouth swoops down to capture Mycroft's in a slow drugging kiss, their cocks sliding together, slick with spit and precome. His hands pull at Mycroft's body, "Rollover for me, Sweetheart."

***

Mycroft moves onto his front, feeling Greg's hard body settle atop his, and it sends pleasant jolts through him. He can feel the other man's sweat-slick chest press along his back and the small sensation of cold metal from Greg's piercing. Mycroft prides himself on his perception of other people, but that particular unexpected discovery arouses and entices him more than he wants to admit. 

Mycroft feels Greg's lips brush against the shell of his right ear, and his hot breath has goosebumps forming on Mycroft's arms as Greg drawls in a low purr, "I'm going to tease you with my fingers until you can't stand it and then I'm going to slowly fill you up with my cock. I've thought of fucking into you deep and slow so many times. I want you to lose control and beg me, Gorgeous. I want all your attention on my dick thrusting in and out of your tight hole." 

Mycroft moans, and abruptly, his back feels cold with the loss of Greg's body heat as the man reaches over to his bedside table. Mycroft hears the telltale signs of a drawer opening, followed by the crinkle of plastic and the feel of a bottle of lube dropping next to his thigh. 

Mycroft holds back a whine as Greg's hands move down the length of his back, and his skin quivers as Greg's thumbs press into the concave hollow of his spine. 

"I... I'm clean." Mycroft breathes out, suddenly wanting nothing more to feel Greg's hot flesh against him sans latex barrier. "Forgive the infraction, but I know you were tested months ago and if you haven't engaged -"

Greg laughs luckily, grabs Mycroft's arse and spreads his cheeks, cold air settling against his hole. "I should be angry about the lack of privacy, but since I'm used to the Holmes way of thinking, I know I should be flattered." Greg presses one of his thumbs against Mycroft, not dipping in but just applying gratifying pressure, "Have you thought about this a lot, Gorgeous? My fat cock fucking into your tight hole? I'm surprised you didn't arrange for the whole Yard to have some random health screening so that you could make sure I would be able to come deep in your arse and fill you up."

Mycroft lets out a hiccuped laugh, "Y-you would be surprised."

"Oh, would I?" Greg asks, there's a sound of a cap opening, and a slick finger starts to rub circles around Mycroft's arsehole slowly. 

"L-Lestrade-" Mycroft chokes out, spreading his legs wider. 

"Lestrade, eh?" Mycroft can hear the humor in Greg's voice, "What happened to Gregory? Are you getting impatient, Darlin?"

Blood surges from Mycroft's fingertips to his toes, and he keens, arching his back and presses up against Greg's fingers. His breath catches as a hand moves to Small of his back, forcing him to be still, while Greg's other hand slowly teases his entrance. 

"Now, now," Greg scolds, voice hoarse, "If you want me to fuck you, you have to let me do it _right_."

Mycroft gives a long surrendering moan, and his heart flutters wildly in his chest. After what feels like hours of teasing, Greg's finger slowly enters his body, touching him to his core with tantalizing possessiveness. A calculated press follows every third or fourth thrust of Greg's finger on his prostate. Mycroft feels heat starting to inch through his veins. He wails unconsciously into the bedsheets as a second, and later, a third finger is added to the slow onslaught.

"Gregory - please," Mycroft begs.

The fingers withdraw, and Mycroft almost cries at the loss of pressure; his body feels achingly empty. He can feel the slick, thick head of Greg's cock sliding against him, holding back and just waiting, teasing with hidden promises. Greg's fingertips caress up his damp rib cage like fleeting whispers. 

"Are you sure you want this Gorgeous?" Greg's voice is velvety and dark, "Do you want me to fuck you deep and slow? Have my cock milk you? What if I just fill you up and refuse to move, so you have to squirm on my dick as you try to get off? Can you come without my hands, Sunshine? Do you want to get off on just my cock alone?"

"Fuck, Yes, Fuck me, Please," Mycroft arches his arse up, trying to drive Greg's cock into him. "Now, Gregory." 

"Fuck me up," Greg pants, "you are such a _bossy_ bottom. I love it."

Mycroft's huff of laughter turns into a sob and catches in his throat as Greg slowly presses down, filling him up. At first, there is resistance, but then his body opens and melts into Greg's. The initial burn is quickly replaced by overwhelming satisfaction, and Mycroft is lost in the sensations of it all. 

In the past, when Mycroft had allowed physical attention, it had always remained just that - physical. With Gregory, it's terrifyingly and remarkably different. Mycroft knows his carefully built walls are crumbling, and he's letting them fall for Gregory alone. His mind allowing Greg to tear apart his soul and rebuilt it as he sees fit. For the first time in his life, Mycroft accepts the precarious intrusion. There is no going back. 

Mycroft feels himself shattering piece by piece with each slow drag of Greg's cock deep inside him, only to be renewed, again and again with each earth-shattering thrust. Greg's powerful fingers dig deliciously into his hips, and Mycroft hopes they leave bruises to remind him of this moment. Of his rebirth into something else, into someone else. It's ridiculous he thinks that sex can lead to such a life-altering moment, but here they are. Greg is permeating him, consuming him. 

Mycroft's pleasure-tormented body feels as if it is half ice and half flame; the sensory overload is intense. His cock is being dragged and pushed against the sheets of Greg's bed. It's a lower thread count than he's used to, and he makes a mental note to rectify that, but at this point, the slide gives a gratifying texture against his leaking cock. 

Greg's palms slide up from Mycroft's hips to his ribs, and then to his shoulders where he grips at the muscle there. His lips open, and he pants harshly against Mycroft's ear as he increases the speed of his thrusts. "Fuck. I am so close. Your arse is so fucking tight, love. I want my cock to pulse deep inside you and fill you up so that my come drips out of your hole while I still fuck into you. I want you to clench that arse on my dick and take your pleasure from me. It's only for you beautiful - fuck, only _you._ " 

It's too much, and enough all at once. The slide of Greg's cock against his prostate, combined with the rough stimulation of the cloth below him, is enough to tip him over the edge. Mycroft feels himself shatter like a supernova, particles flying out into the expanse of space before collapsing violently onto himself in a haze of pleasure. 

Greg lets out a loud, stuttered moan, hips thrusting hard and deep. Mycroft feels Greg’s cock throb, and a burning wet heat fills him up from inside. 

He comes to moments later to Greg's lips layering kisses along his shoulder blades, his muscles liquid, and he gives a soft hum of appreciation. Greg's softened cock slips out of him, and Mycroft feels the slick that follows. Greg shifts to the side and pulls Mycroft with him, so he's laying with his back pressed against Greg's steady chest. He should be worried about cleaning up, but at the moment, he simply cannot find the energy to care. 

One of Greg's hands slides up his front to his neck, fingers pressing against his still rapidly beating pulse. Greg's lips kiss along his ear and to his temple. "You are amazing."

Mycroft is glad his embarrassingly huge smile is hidden from Greg's view, "as are you," he responds. 

"Please tell me this wasn't a one-time thing," Greg pleads. "I'll respect your decision, but I wasn't lying when I said I wanted you, Mycroft. I don't think I can stop wanting you."

Mycroft rolls over in Greg's embrace, so they are facing each other. "I worry the intensity of my feelings for you will frighten you," he confesses, voice soft. His fingers curl against Greg's damp chest, brushing against the silver hair. "I am not an easy man to be with, Gregory. I have many traits that some might consider deficiencies. We will most certainly have disagreements at times and get frustrated.” Mycroft licks his lips, ”I am not... proficient in the ways of maintaining a successful relationship, but I will endeavor to try and be worthy of you."

Greg smiles tenderly. "You are more than worthy, Gorgeous." Mycroft close his eyes as Greg pushes back a wayward curl from his forehead, "And we will learn _together._ "

***

Eventually, they untangle their limbs and wash off, pressing against each other, giggling in Greg's small shower while they trade sweet kisses. Mycroft sleeps over but reluctantly has to leave early the next morning due to work, and it's a struggle to pull himself away from Greg's warm embrace. 

"I hope I can get this matter resolved quickly," Mycroft sighs as he headed out the door, smoothing down his jacket. He gives Greg one last lingering kiss before he pulls back, knowing Anthea will come to fetch him if he takes much longer. "I will let you know once I am free." 

Greg winks and smiles broadly, "Call me."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr ](https://thesilverapplesofthemoon.tumblr.com) :)


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